Thoughtless
by PPP SSC
Summary: Waylon Smithers was drunk that night, and what he did to Montgomery Burns would surely have a negative impact on their relationship. Contains strong allusions to sexual assault and some offensive language.


Thoughtless

_Give it time, _I thought, _it will subside soon. _The last time I saw him this inebriated was when he was losing the drinking game at my party. When he got like this, he had always said things to me that made me feel uncomfortable. But this… this was something more. He pushed me over, and I could feel my frail body being twisted in torques even I found too sinister to comprehend. I tried to run, but my old man breath got the best of me and I found myself tied to the bed. Unable by sheer fragility to break the ropes, I was forced into the position, face down. And he with his evil intentions tore my clothes off. I tried to protest, but once again my old man breath got the best of me. And he climbed on me, and I tried to get him off, but since he outweighed me by fifty pounds, it was difficult to lift him. And that was the night, I, Montgomery Burns, lost my claim to power.

He used to help me with every little thing, and everything was just perfect. But I became so… so very afraid… after that night. He still walked about, that predator. And every time I looked at him, I lost some faith in the man I once trusted with my life. The man who had raped me. He knew he would be put on trial, and he would plead guilty. That was his promise to me. He would take the punishment for what he had done, even if he had no intention of doing so. Even though he was drunk and couldn't think clearly. Even though the very idea of usurping my power, especially in such a vulgar way, was just a thoughtless and unwanted act in his mind, he would take the blame. He would go to prison, and I knew he wished it upon himself.

His problem was that he was never open about anything. Every time he tried to share his feelings with me, he would be too cowardly to do so. The beauty of intoxication is that his inhibitions were relaxed, and he could tell me the truth; but since he never had, what he always wanted to say… that he loved me… that he wanted to be with me forever and marry me…that he may be the sole person mourning my death when it came, but that it wouldn't be that bad because he'd mourn such as Romeo mourned Juliet, and Juliet later mourned Romeo…had been buried under unfulfilled sexual desire.

He was a young man. In his early forties. Not yet faced with a midlife crisis, and he had all the desires of a young man. I might say they were warped somewhat, but never anything like this. He exercised extreme restraint while sober. Sometimes he would lose control and touch me or kiss me, but nothing such the ferocity as when he forced me into sex. And when I told him what had happened, he started crying. Now, if I'm not mistaken, I think that if you managed to usurp power from someone who had always taunted you with it… held it above your head just out of reach…your first response would not be to cry, but to be proud of yourself.

But he did cry, so very softly. He called himself a cache of unfriendly words including some even I don't feel like saying but the ones he repeated the most were "animal faggot". I didn't know what to say when he called himself that. I was terrified of him, as when he was drunk he was the most dangerous man I had ever met. But then, now, his sober self-hatred was almost too saddening to bear. "Animal faggot", played over and over in my head. I had always learned that a faggot was a bundle of sticks for burning, but this was one of those "new words"… one of the most degrading of all… offensive to more than just the person of reference… and now I was hearing my top employee, whose heinous crime had caused me to feel uncomfortable around him, repeating it at himself over and over again. I wanted to tell him to stop, but he wouldn't have listened.

He said, "I'll never forgive myself, sir. I forced you into sex. God… I'm an animal. I'm an animal faggot." I tried to move myself closer to him and make him feel better about himself. "Just get away from me, sir. It's obvious I'm not safe for you to be around," was his reply.

It was true. He had stolen my power, he had betrayed me, he had fulfilled his own selfish lusting desires, and he had ruined his own life all in one night. The justification was that he was intoxicated. Did I not understand how hard it must be for a homosexual of such a high-standing to deal with such temptation while his inhibitions were not stopping him? Of course I understood. Which is why I attempted to forgive Waylon Smithers. But no matter how I tried, he would not let me.

The trial commenced days later. And just as we were both expecting, he plead guilty. He went to prison with a life sentence. And there was a bail, but it was so high only I could afford it. As he was walking away from the trial, he said, "I'm sorry, sir," in the meekest most Omega-wolf-like way he could. This sober apology showed me that he had never intended to steal my power. Three months later, I went to visit him in his cell.

There he was, lying on the stone bench, in that repugnant orange outfit. He looked as if he had not eaten since I left him last, although I do believe if one goes 13 weeks without eating he dies, so it was probably a misconception. "Sir…" he whispered, as he got up slowly and walked toward the barred door. "Sir… why did you come here? You were the victim of my crime. Why did you want to check up on me?"

"I love you," I said. "And I forgive you." He started crying and headed for the back of his cell.

"God, Mr. Burns… I'm such an…" he began, but I hushed him. I outstretched my emaciated hand through the bars so that he could touch it.

"Don't say 'animal faggot' anymore. You were drunk. You were too drunk to control yourself. And I was partially at fault for not stopping you." He smiled, and kissed my hand.

"Sir," he began, "I love you too."

"I know," was my reply, "It was never about power."

I walked out the door and put a four hundred million dollar check on the counter. _Waylon Smithers_, I thought to myself, _meet daylight once again._ He deserved it. What happened between him and me on that night was due to a thoughtless lack of conscience. Sober, or even mildly tipsy, he would never dream of doing anything so cruel to me. Rape for him was sex not power, and all that was missing was my consent. I would, possibly, in the future, give it to him, provided, I, the lighter specimen, get the top. And should the bail hold, everything should return to normal soon enough.


End file.
